


The Art of Unimportance

by TrenchcoatButtons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Gregor Clegane is His Own Warning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatButtons/pseuds/TrenchcoatButtons
Summary: A canon divergent look at a world where the briefly mentioned Clegane sister did not die. The world remains much the same, but for a select few individuals- the existence of one person can make all the difference.An exploration of relationships and how they change decisions people make. Eventual Sansan.
Relationships: (eventually), (i'm playing the long game here), Sandor Clegane & His Sister, Sandor Clegane & Original Female Character(s), Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 63





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A couple notes-
> 
> I'm aging up all the Stark kids, and George can complain about it when he puts out TWoW, making all these characters a bunch of BABIES. FETUSES the lot of them. So Sansa is about 14 at the time of her arrival in King's Landing. I find most of the kids don't really read as their book canon ages to begin with, and would prefer them be more along the lines of their show ages. I know I've fucked up the timeline somewhere anyway, so my excuse is I can do what I want.
> 
> Elinor is 3 years older than Sandor, and 2 years younger than Gregor. As a daughter of a minor House (and other factors you will read about) she works and lives as a Lady in Waiting to one of the higher ranking Houses of the Westerlands.

* * *

Elinor is ten years old when she decides to run away.

Really, it’s the only practical thing to do- and the Cleganes have always been a practical sort. They do not mince words, they do not suffer frippery… It’s the only choice that she finds reasonable.

But she knows it will not be as simple as just leaving.

While Sandor screams and the Maester tries valiantly to settle him, she hurries down the steps of the tower house and out into the courtyard, across the hard packed dirt towards the kennels. They take up the majority of the keeps inner workings, as the dogs are the Cleganes greatest asset. The cool evening wind feels beautiful against her face, but she can’t enjoy it, not now. Her little brothers howling will haunt her for years to come.

Orla, the kennelmaster apprentice’s wife, is awake still, standing outside the small attached home and looking up at the high wall of Clegane keep. She catches Elinor’s shoulders as she approaches, pinched mouth turned down in concern. 

“My lady, what’s happened-”

“Gregor,” Elinor gasps. “He- it’s very bad, Orla. I have to ask you something, I need your help.”

Orla is a severe woman, no nonsense and sharp. Her husband is Elinor’s mother’s cousin- she thinks, anyway. Her mother’s been dead since after Sandor was born. They aren’t quite kin, but she has always offered a place of safety in her home and among the hounds. Orla grasps her shoulders, and quickly ushers her into the kennel, not the home.

She tells her everything she knows. Gregor. The brazier. Sandor’s face. And then Elinor tells her more.The words pour out like never before- because she’s never said them before. How her fall down the steps last year was not an accident, that Gregor pushed her. How Gregor has visited her in the night. How she doesn’t think she’ll be able to hide that from her father forever, and what will happen then? 

“I will not be married away,” she says, head shaking and eyes threatening to tear. “They will know, they will know, and Sandor- I don’t know if he’s going to live, Orla. I have to get him away, I have to get away.” 

She can smell dog and hay and freshwater, and warm tracks down her cheeks. “Gregor grows worse with every year,” she whispers, feels her voice break. “The nights… I am going to die, or kill myself if I have to.”

And Orla, who Elinor knows does not have any children, pulls her into her arms and clutches her so tightly that Elinor thinks she may bruise. It feels good. It feels like a mother. Something she hasn’t experienced in four years.

Among the hounds, she holds on tightly.

* * *

The worst part is waiting until Sandor is well enough to move. Elinor could disappear on her own well enough, with Orla’s help, but she refuses to leave him. Cannot do it. So, Orla buys her time- is her salvation yet again. 

Somehow, she hints to Elinor’s father that Gregor seems a bit restless lately, perhaps he’d enjoy going on a hunt? Take some of the dogs with him, even.

The idea sparks a little, the idea of bloodshed of any kind is exciting to her elder brother, and so the preparations are made and a few days later he leaves with a group of soldiers and other men, six of the dogs cantering off beside them.

Elinor can’t help but wonder how many will return. Gregor is twelve, and the size of a man grown already, if not taller. He is cunning in a terrible way. She knows this firsthand.

While they are away, Elinor prepares. She sneaks into the Maester’s room and takes jars of whatever ointment it is he’s been using on Sandor. A small jar of Milk of the Poppy. The bundle beneath her bed grows, and she only hopes it is enough. She doesn't know how to survive in the wilds, and Sandor is in no condition to do much of anything. They very well may be escaping to their death.

Cleganes are practical, she reminds herself. The dogs that died in the yellow grass of their sigil did so knowing the odds were bleak. At least it won’t be at Gregor’s hands.

Worst though, than her stealing from the Maester, is she waits until her father is out in the yard, until her Septa has scurried off to retrieve their luncheon. Then Elinor creeps into the north solar where her father’s rooms are. She finds the box of jewelry that once belonged to her mother. Takes it.

She is a thief, and she has become very good at it. She is a liar, and she is even better at that.

The Cleganes are practical, she reminds herself. Survive. Survive, and perhaps someday she will be able to pay her father back for these crimes. In the moments when she feels ill, that she should confess all she’s done, she remembers the story her father has told everyone.

Sandor’s bed caught fire. 

He lays, agonized and bandaged, hardly able to move for several weeks. When he is finally up and moving again, he is listless and empty-eyed. The corner of his mouth is pulled back tight so she can see his teeth, and the skin is raw, ragged and pockmarked from where the Maester has had to cut away dead flesh. It must be kept constantly moistened, bandaged, kept clean. She reminds herself this over and over again. Thinks about the scent of burning hair and flesh that lingered in the halls for days. The powerful liniment smell that replaced it, that was at its strongest in Sandor’s room. The sound of his labored breathing, weak crying. Think about that. Think about the bedding catching fire. Think about Gregor’s massive form standing over her bed.

Resolve.

When the time comes, she wakes up her baby brother, has him pack warmly, and drags him out of the castle under cover of night. He doesn’t put up much of a fight. He’s barely spoken, the past month and a half. He’d been so bright before, a little spot untouched by the rest of the things within Clegane keep. 

That wasn’t the case anymore. Now he is delirious, watery-eyed and gently ushered through the tower, down the steps and to the courtyard, then the outside of the kennel along the keep’s walls.

Orla is there, with a pair of dogs and a horse in the blackness. She will get them to Lannisport.

Everything else is up to them.

* * *

Orla had only been able to get them to the coast, after that they would have to make their own way. She left them with the dogs- as protection, the best she could give. They were a pair that knew the Clegane children, had been bred and raised to hunt and protect and guide. Once they’d smelled their charges, the great shaggy creatures had attached themselves to Sandor and Elinor’s heels, and they were not to be moved. They were bred from the dogs that survived her grandfather’s battle with the lioness, Elinor knows. The Clegane history is a short one, but memorable.

They were both black as pitch. Shaggy, with sharp features and a height that put them more in line with wolves than normal hunting hounds. The male had eyes so dark you could not see any white, and the female had a sheen of red when the light hit her fur properly. Quiet and attentive creatures. 

She rattled her brain for a name, and tried to remember her history lessons. Baela Targaryen had been headstrong, fearless, and hadn’t she, too, escaped death on a number of occasions? The female, she decided, was Baela. Sandor, after a moment or two, called the other Long Night. The dog was not overly affectionate, but he allowed her brother to stroke its fur. A small amount of color returned to his undamaged cheek.

“I don’t know where you might go from here. There would be work at the Rock, and Sandor could perhaps squire there, someday,” she tried to be encouraging. “I have a sister who might help you, but she lives far north, in Winter’s town- but that is a long, long journey, my dears.”

They have enough coin to make their way for a bit, and Elinor keeps her mothers jewelry tightly hidden among her skirts. She doesn’t want to part with it, but she knows that she’ll do what she has to do.

Her intention had been to stay in Lannisport for a day or so, but by the morning of their second day, she overhears chatter at the Inn about the Clegane children gone missing. She hadn’t thought that sort of thing would be gossip worthy, and in a panic, the image of Gregor standing over her while she huddled, pretending to sleep in bed, Elinor gathered their things and hurried them to the docks. 

She only wanted to go far, far away, as far away as she could get. She wasn’t even entirely sure where their destination was until they had already left. They are not going far enough away, she feels, but maybe no place would ever be truly far enough. Casterly Rock rises ahead of them like a thunderhead across the fields. 

They had been given a small corner in the hold, with little more than a sheet to give them a degree of privacy. She pillowed Sandor’s head in her lap, mindful of the bad side, and allowed the dogs to curl around the two of them. 

She is suddenly so, so very tired. She feels safe right here, right now, despite them being out on the ocean surrounded by strange men. She ought to have felt safe at home in her bed, with her father and brothers. 

Instead, the idea of being there fills her with such sticky dread that her throat goes tight, and the tears fall unbidden in both relief and anguish. 

Sandor’s hands come up to tug her arm down to his chest, hug it tight to him. Feels his mismatched mouth press a kiss to the inside of her elbow. His voice is a rasp, forever blackened with hot smoke and coals.

“I’ll protect you, Nella.”

She cries, and her little brothers hold is so very weak.

* * *

Their luck runs out quicker than she’d hoped. Several days from their arrival at the Rock, and Sandor’s face is what does them in.

She wants to be sympathetic, it isn’t his fault. But if it had just been her, she could have disappeared forever and never have to see Gregor ever again. She's furious, agonized, fighting with everything she can to control her breathing. If only it had just been her- But the moment a boy with half a face is spotted in the street, walking beside a tall girl with black hair, it’s over. They are two obvious a pair, tall as they are with Sandor’s disfigurement.

They are discovered as the missing Clegane children and marched up to the castle itself. That word has spread this fast either means her father is angry, or truly concerned for them.

She isn’t sure which one worries her more.

To her enormous surprise, her father is not there. It is only Tywin Lannister sitting at a desk and looking them over as if appraising a pair of cattle. Which she doesn’t understand- Long Night and Baela sit by the door, alert and attentive and wary.

He did not speak for a moment, but his eyes slid over Elinor- unkempt, terrified- to settle on Sandor. Despite how thin and weak he remained, he still carried the Clegane height. At six he was taller and broader than any child had the right to be. He was not Gregor, but any fool could tell that someday Sandor would be a tower of a man.

“It is my understanding,” Tywin began carefully, eyes critical and calculating. “That Lord Clegane has lost a pair of pups."


	2. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters between Casterly Rock and Clegane Keep, as carried on horseback.

277

_Sandor,_

_The Rock is treating me well, it is so huge here! One could walk these halls for an hour and never be seen again, I think. If you go down low enough, they say you can hear the lions in the deep cells- but I’ve not heard a single roar yet._

_Your letters are getting better, you don't leave spots at the start of words anymore. The Maesters and Septas here are far stricter than Marken, but I can see you're learning well._

_Father was very cross when he visited, I hope he did not punish you when you returned home. Lord Tywin told me what he told father, and I’m grateful. You’re going to be a great warrior, someday, and though I wish we had been allowed to stay together, I think it might be better this way. Perhaps. Oh, I’ve stained the page already, you can tell I’m lying can't you? I’m so afraid for you being back home, Sandor. Visit Orla if you can, she has always been kind and will take care of you._

_I love you, little brother, I will write you as often as I can. Baela sends her love as well._

_-Elinor_

~~

**Nella,**

**thank you for what you said about my letters. the maester says im not as thick in the skull as gregor and that made me laugh. i felt like he would know i did all day after it though even though hes away with ser lymond. i did see orla and asked her to take long night back to the kennels because if gregor sees me with a dog well you know what might happen. but i visit him all the time and when i'm grown im going to take him away with me when i become a knight.**

**father hasnt hit me he blames you for taking me away i think. so i think youre right about it being better this way i don't want you here now when hes cross with you.**

**i will write you too.**

**-Sandor**

~~

280

_Sandor,_

_I know you've no great love for court gossip, but I have news you may find interesting. Actually, you may receive this before the word reaches father!_

_It's no secret, at least here at the Rock, that Lord Tywin had wished to marry his daughter to Prince Rhaegar, it is also no true secret that the King denied this request. Despite Prince Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia Martell, Lord Tywin kept Cersei with him in the capitol. This will matter later in my letter, fear not._

_Jaime Lannister, whom you may remember from my many tales of our illicit love affair upon the shores of the Rock, has been elevated to Kingsguard. This takes away our Lord’s heir. Tywin has resigned as Hand of the King and returned to Casterly Rock with Lady Cersei in tow- can you believe! Oh to be a fly on the wall of those proceedings. I suppose this makes the little imp lord Tyrion heir, but nothing has been said thus far._

_And though you've never asked, yes this means mine and Ser Jaime’s plans to elope and cross the Sunset Sea have come to an end. Such a shame, we would have made such pretty babies- our love will have to join the great and tragic ranks of Duncan and his Jenny, Naerys and her Dragonknight, etcetera etcetera etcetera._

_Anyway, as I am of an age with Lady Cersei, I have been moved to her service. Neither she nor Lord Tywin have been in good spirits since their return, and I’ve a dreadful feeling it is going to remain so for a time. Still, she is not terribly difficult to serve, and I feel I’ve kept myself in her good graces thus far. Others cannot say the same._

_Our dear brother arrived with Lord Tywin’s retinue. Ser Lymond was not, it appears he is now squiring for Ser Amory. They make a very frightful pair, and that is all I will say on the subject. I’ve thus far managed to make myself scarce, but he most certainly saw me at supper. Be prepared for a visit sometime soon, I imagine. And let the serving girls know, Tilly should be able to wrangle them all the best._

_I suppose that is all I have for this letter. You remain in my thoughts and heart, little brother._

_-Elinor_

~~~

**Nella,**

**Does Jaime Lannister know of your affair? You're lucky Harlan can't read, else wise the entire Westerlands would know your mummery.**

**I haven't it in me to tease you as I would before. I actually received word before you did. Lord Tywin stopped in at the Keep on his way back to the Rock. So, I already knew about his resignation, and I knew about Gregor too. I wish I’d had your forewarning, though.**

**Gregor isn't tailing Lorch because he’s squiring him. Prince Rhaegar knighted him before Lord Tywin left King’s Landing. It's Ser Gregor, now. Quite the jest, isn't it? He’s going out in a fortnight to that tourney at Harrenhal.**

**I have nothing else to say. They’ve knighted him, Elinor. The prince himself anointed him.**

**There is no such thing as true knights, there are no gods, and I hate them all besides.**

**-Sandor**

~~~

_Sandor,_

_I learned as much not long after handing your letter off with Harlan. I’m afraid I have little to write of. I do not have words for how it has been here, and cannot imagine what it was like back home. How it will be._

_I spoke with Gregor. He's very pleased._

_I lack the words just as you do._

_No, Ser Jaime does not know. It is for the best, he is not for me. I know that now, I knew it before too, but I know it better now._

_Be safe, Sandor._

_-Elinor_

~~~

_Sandor,_

_It has been some time, and you've not written. Harlan said he put the page in your hand himself, so I try again here, with better words. This note comes your way along with Gregor, and for that I am sorry._

_The world is hard, little brother, we both know this. Maybe you need not be a knight to be true and good? Perhaps it is not about the oils and the swords. Gregor is what he has always been, a brother only in name and not heart. We cannot expect the rest of the world to understand when they have not shared a home with him. To them, he is the great Mountain of the West, unstoppable and bold. The Prince could not possibly know._

_I love you and think of you daily. Please, try and remember that the world is not wholly wicked. We needs believe that._

_-Elinor_

_P.S._

_I wish so dearly that I had fought harder to keep you with me here._

~~~

**Elinor,**

**I wish you had too. It is easy for you, isn’t it? Up there on the Rock with your ladies and your pretty dresses. You don’t have to see him like I do. You don’t understand what it’s like here. You ran away, and I went home.**

**Long Night died last night. Gregor rides for Harrenhal.**

**-Sandor**

~~~

281

_Sandor,_

_I know we have not corresponded in some time, but you are still my brother. The only family I have left, in truth. There is nothing I can say towards your last letter. You are right. I don’t have to see him like you do. I fear I do not have the heart to write any more on the subject, so I pray you forgive me and know that not a day goes by that I do not wish things were different._

_News, I have news. At tea some days ago, I mentioned that our mother, Julienna, was a Swyft by birth. A bit far removed from the main branch, since she married a Clegane, but Lady Jocelyn Swyft said I had her look. Apparently they were close as girls, and she requested I accompany her back to King’s Landing once she took leave. Cersei goes through companions as a Maester goes through Ravens, and so she had little issue allowing the request._

_I must admit, it is exciting to hear stories of mother when she was small. You may not remember her as well as I do, and what I remember is not much._

_Lady Jocelyn said mother used to kick her slippers off and go running through the wheat fields after a rain. They always gave her a thrashing when she returned, but it did not stop her. Anything else I learn you shall know._

_I set out for King’s Landing and the Red Keep tomorrow morning. If you ever wish to send me a letter, that is where I shall be for the foreseeable future._

_-Elinor_

~~~~

**Little Sister,**

**The puppy isn't here. Father died and Sandor disappeared the next morning. I'm sure I saw the trail of piss he left heading into the woods.**

**Good to know where to find you, should I want to send a letter to you. You have two brothers, you ought remember that. But I guess no one really remembers you either, so I won't take offense.**

**Lord Gregor Clegane**   
**Knight of the Seven Kingdoms**

~~~~

282

**Elinor,**

**I thought when I got to the Rock, you would be here. I asked Ser Gerion, and he didn't know you. When I ask about a Clegane girl, almost no one knows. Why is that? Some of them said they thought the Clegane girl was dead. Nobody knew you until I described your height and hair.**

**I’m at Casterly Rock now. When father died I left, I ran here because I knew I was going to be dead if I stayed. Gregor brought father back from their hunt put over the back of his horse like a stuck pig. I thought you'd be here.**

**My own fault, I ignored your letters and stopped writing you. I don't blame you for not writing me after that.**

**Lord Tywin has taken me in, set me to squire for some Lannister cousin. I think there might be something terrible going on, though. Some northern Lord’s daughter has gone missing, and there's rumors about the Prince too. They call King Aerys mad, you know, be careful there.**

**-Sandor**

~~~~

_Little Brother,_

_It does my heart good to hear from you. At Casterly Rock they thought I was dead because that is what I let them think._

_When father visited after you returned home, he knew I wasn't a maid. He said I shouldn't call myself a Clegane, that it would only bring shame to him, and you, and Gregor. So I ceased introducing myself as such. Lady Elinor is name enough when you're but a companion to noble blood. Had you asked Lady Cersei or those amongst her companions, they would have known me, I should think. Anyone else likely would not._

_There are quite dreadful things happening. The Prince has ran off, and the rumor is that he has eloped or run away with Lord Rickard Stark’s daughter, Lyanna. No one quite knows what to say or do, and King Aerys- I have not met him, though I have seen him at court- seems to be either ignoring it altogether or keeping himself quite under control. Princess Elia has put on a very strong face, but otherwise is remaining sequestered in the royal family wing._

_I urge you not to speak ill of the king, nor spread any falsities against him. He is a great man, with a delicate ear for treachery. I do not want to see you garner any dislike from him._

_._ _.,_

_I apologize for the smudged page, there was a disturbance at the gates some hours ago, and it is only now at dusk that I manage to return to this letter. Brandon Stark came pounding on the gates, demanding Prince Rhaegar combat him. The Prince is of course not here, and King Aerys has had the man arrested. By the time you receive this you may know more, but I beg of you to take care, little brother. Something ill is at hand, I fear. I remain in the service of Lady Jocelyn, and while there is much I wish to tell you it will have to wait until next time. Or perhaps when we see each other once again. Can you believe it's been more than four years?_

_Be careful, be alert, pretend He is around every corner._

_-Elinor_

~~~~~

**Elinor,**

**Well father is dead. There's no one left to shame, least of all me. I always wondered why father let you stay at the Rock but brought me home. I think I understand now. Fuck him, Nella. Fuck him and fuck Gregor.**

**I wanted to write a good long letter like you did, but I am not for words like you. By the time I received your letter, things had already gone mad. There is war coming, and I am being fitted for armor. Ser Gerion has taken me to squire, he says he wants a big lad like me on his side, if for no other reason than to block a few arrows.**

**If I do not see you soon or hear from you soon- no, I don't know. We may all be dead before this is done. I heard about what happened to those Stark men. You can imagine what I thought about it.**

**-Sandor**

~~~~~

283

**Nella-**

**We march for King’s Landing in a few days time. The rebel army is heading your way. Gregor is here, he rides at the head with Lord Tywin. I may see you again before long.**

**-Sandor**


	3. All That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little more stage setting here, I swear Sansa and Sandor are going to interact next chapter. I just had to set a few things in motion first.
> 
> Anyway: The effects of Elinor's survival begin to show themselves- but that doesn't mean King's Landing is all it's cracked up to be.

_ 298 _

_ Castle Darry _

* * *

Ned sat beside her for a while. Sansa had chosen the name well, for a Lady she was. A demure sort of animal, who knew him and so allowed Ned to stroke her fur there in the dark. Jory brought him Ice, but he waited a moment. And then a moment more.

The wind picked up, and Ned heard hooves coming down the path from the castle gate. Sandor Clegane slowed his destrier, eyed the northern lord as he sat with the wolf pup. Ned found himself standing, eyeing the great cloak wrapped lump sling over the back of his horse.

“No sign of your daughter, Hand,” he rasped, as of yet to know that Arya had been returned safely. “But the day was not wholly wasted…”

He dismounted, lugged the bundle with him and let it slump to the ground. There was blood seeped across one end. Bending, Ned pulled back the cloth and found the bloody face of the butcher’s boy.

It was not clear initially where the blood seemed to have come from, until Ned noticed steady inhales from the boy. At the place where the back of his neck met his shoulder, there was a deep cut several inches long. On his cheek, a slimmer cut had already congealed into the start of scab. He could hear his younger daughter's voice, clear as a bell.  _ He was hurting Mycah! _

“You… rode him down?”

“He ran,” Sandor Clegane rasped. Something in Ned’s face must have made him laugh, for he shook his head, eyes difficult to read within the confines of his hounds helm. “Not very fast.”

Stunned, Ned watched Sandor Clegane lean around and peer at the wolf pup, Ice beside her. 

“Tell you what, Hand. Why don't you take the boy to the king? I’ll keep an eye on the mongrel for you, so it doesn't chew through its lead. It's your daughters in the thick of it, ought be you to bring another witness.”

The wind rustled Ned’s hair, a cold one that felt as though it was coming from the north. “I thank you, Clegane,” he said after a long moment. Ned did not know why. “Mind the pup. Jory should be back along in a moment.” 

He doesn't know why he's doing this all of a sudden, why he’s going against his word in this. Clegane’s eyes let nothing on, but he nods and grips his destrier’s bridle in hand. 

Ned bent and patted at the boy’s face. In a moment or two he was up, groggy and having to hold onto Ned as he assisted him down the path. Behind, he heard the sound of chain rattling.

Later, after all manner of shouting and weeping and pleading, the matter is settled. The butcher’s boy is returned to his father with a handful of lashes on his backside, Joffrey away to a Maester moaning and demanding further justice. Cersei looked more ice than woman, and Robert manages to usher her off to simper over her son.

“Did you handle the beast, Ned?” his old friend asks. 

Ned hears Sansa inhale sharply, and he looks to his daughters, both the picture of abject misery. He nods.

“She has been taken care of, your grace.”

The sound his daughter makes is nothing short of gut wrenching. He hears Arya, too, make a strangled little  _ oh _ sound. When he turns, Septa Mordane has Sansa by the shoulders, ushering her out the door.

Arya looks at him with something like betrayal in her eyes. When her little friend had come into the room, she had nearly screamed for relief. The boy had corroborated her story easily enough, but not good enough in the eyes of the Queen. A lashing for the boy, the skin of a direwolf. Mycah had been returned to his father, a trembling and sobbing heap from so many days of fear. He would be kept with the meat wagon and with his father at all times- which Ned found himself pleased with, it being likely safer than being near the crown prince. So it had all ended significantly better than it appeared to be going.

Except Ned could not say for truth what had or was happening to Lady. And Nymeria, off into the southern woods by need of survival. The true punishments tonight were right here, staring back at him with all the childhood heartbreak he understood too well.

Arya spun from him and hurried after Septa Mordane. 

When he returned to the gatehouse, Clegane was gone, and some of the hay upon the floor shone slick with blood.

His heart sank down into his belly- whatever odd hope he'd placed in Clegane had been for naught. He’d spared the boy, but slaughtered the wolf. Where was the body, he wondered? Had Clegane dragged it off to give over to his masters? The thought sparked bright fury in Eddard, and he lost himself to it for a moment, eventually being broken out of it by the crunch of boots.

“Lord Stark?”

“Jory- have you seen-”

“I have,” he says quickly, hand in his belt and looking a bit flustered. “The Hound was here when I returned. He said you wished the body returned to Winterfell immediately. All that way, is that so?”

Fury gave way to confusion. He’d given no order or made no such request. Still, it is what he would have wanted. Keep dear Lady away from the Lannister woman, may she never have as fine a fur the rest of her life. 

“All that way. She should be brought home. Tell me, did she look like she’d suffered?”

Jory’s tone was gentle. “No, my lord. She seemed more like she was sleeping. I’ve gathered a handful of guards eager to return, who will be setting out this very night. She’ll be in good hands.”

“Thank you, Jory. See it done, I must go and check on my daughters.”

* * *

King’s Landing was a dream.

Once they had been shown what was to be their rooms in the Tower of the Hand, Sansa had wanted to go exploring almost as desperately as Arya. Still, the walk through the halls with Septa Mordane had been nothing short of a story come to life- the pale red stone, beautifully arched halls that stretched on and on and on, stalwart men in gold cloaks patrolled and nodded ever so gallantly. A knight with coppery gold hair and a flaming tree across his breastplate had excused himself from speaking to a lady just to welcome them!

Even Arya seemed more taken with the finery and grandness of the keep then Sansa had expected her to be. There had been something of a grim truce between them ever since the stay at Castle Darry. With both their wolves gone, and Joffrey confined to the wheelhouse, they’d had little choice but to ride together. She was still being absolutely dreadful about Joffrey, and so Sansa had chosen to pointedly ignore everything she said. But here, now, at the capitol at last… The instant their trunks had been deposited in their rooms she had attacked it, looking for her finest gown.

_ This, this will make everything better, _ Sansa thought.  _ I will dress so beautifully for supper and Joffrey will forget that day was ever spoiled. _

The afternoon seemed to drag on and on, until father came to collect them for the feast honoring the royal family’s return- and the welcoming of the new Hand of the King. Sansa had been so prepared to rush and sit at Joffrey’s side that she was almost shaking- but it was not to be. While they were given seats of high honors at the head table, she and Arya were on the opposite end from the prince and his siblings. 

But the evening was so bright and beautiful that she could hardly truly complain. The feast was light, all things considered. After such a great deal of traveling they were treated to salads of sweet grass, venison, vegetable stews of leek, onion, mushroom- and more brightly colored fruits and tarts spread out than Sansa had ever seen before. She could scarcely help from piling her plate with blood oranges, raspberries, peaches- until a look from father made her blush. He had laughed softly, though, and plucked one off her plate for himself. 

During the meal, she took the time to account for those she saw in the hall. There were surcoats and sigils visible throughout, many she recognized, but some she did not. Rosby, Stokeworth, Velaryon, Oakheart, Mallister- a sea of colors and identifiers stretched out across the great hall. It took her breath away, and for several moments Sansa only looked around the room in wide-eyed wonder. 

A glance down the high table gave her a glimpse of Joffrey, head held high and listening to something his mother was saying. The Hound did not appear to be at his post- though she spotted him a few steps away from the table. He was grim-faced, which was usual, horrid scars and scowl firmly in place, but surprisingly, he was not alone. A tall woman with black hair piled atop the crown of her head had tugged him off to the side, and they were speaking quietly.

At the moment, she thought perhaps this was the Hound’s  _ wife _ , but the idea was so absurd that she quickly threw it away. And anyway, the longer she looked the more apparent it became that they were kin.

Both had the same hooked nose, though the Hounds had clearly been broken once or twice, dusky skin, strong bone structure. The woman had a freckle on her cheek, another on her chin, and where the Hound’s hair was thin hers was thick and curling. Sansa watched as they spoke for a few moments, though neither did more than glower at the room and mutter. She wore a pretty dress, though her figure did not help her much, as the Cleganes seemed ample in both height and shoulder. Still, the yellow cloth and black ribbons that laced up her front looked nice. After a moment or two, the woman seemed to look around before taking the Hound’s massive hand in hers and squeezing it. She held it tight briefly before patting him on the forearm and slipping away, allowing Clegane to return to his position just behind the prince.

Sansa tracked the woman as she walked crisply along the side of the hall and returned to a seat at a table composed of handmaids and lowerborn ladies. It was the type of lot who hovered in the immediate vicinity of older, nobler houses, companion women who either had yet to marry or were hoping to vye for a higher born groom. Though she seemed awfully old to be sitting among them.

Perhaps the Mountain and the Hound’s reputations spread to their sister.  _ How sad _ , Sansa thought.  _ That she has not found a knight of her own. _

But by then music had started to filter in from a balcony above the dining hall, and a tap on her shoulder saw Prince Joffrey with his golden hair and gallant smile offering her a hand. 

“You will dance with me, won't you, my lady?”

Sansa’s heart pounded wildly against her ribcage, felt her fingers slip smoothly into the princes. “Nothing would please me more, my lord.”

* * *

He heard the door open and shut behind him, heavy bar coming down to keep it closed.

“Maiden, Mother, and Crone- did Cersei get another pole stuck up her arse or was the trip that bad?”

Sandor snorted, turned to greet his sister as she leaned against the wall with a huff. “It was no comely jaunt, I tell you that,” he growled, and went about unbuckling and removing his armor. Each piece, once unbuckled, was placed on the slightly dusty stand that stood at the end of his bed. “One of those Stark brats’ pets bit Joff on the road back here. Those rumors about direwolves for wet nurses? Not wholly untrue. She’s been in a foul mood since we departed Winterfell, but that didn't make it better.” 

Elinor made a face, and moved crisply to his side to assist in unbuckling the breastplate. “Mm. Perhaps marriage will settle that boy- no, what am I saying? I pity the Stark girl. She seems a dreamy sort.”

“Empty headed, you mean.”

“They all are, brother dear. Might be now that she's down south, all the ice will melt off her brain.”

He barked a laugh at that, plucked at his tunic to let it breathe better against his skin. “And here? What of King’s Landing?”

Sandor watched as Elinor bustled about the room- it oft was she seemed incapable of sitting still, always needing to tidy or prepare something. Already she was opening his trunk and folding clothes.

“If the seven hells are real, this keep has been one for the last few moons. No Robert, no Jon Arryn- there's been no sane man to hold court since you left, and that's being very generous to our dear king. Lord Renly has sat in judgment, as he is Master of Laws, but everything else has come to a halt. It's my understanding they dragged poor Lord Stark to the small council chamber before the man was allowed to unpack.”

“Aye, that they did.”

She was muttering under her breath. Sandor picked out a few choice swear words and grumbling that reminded him all too much of a nettled Septa. He snorted.

“I’m sure you find it all very amusing.”

“I might, a bit.”

She stood by the hearth, hands on her hips and squinting at him. “Something happened on the journey, didn't it? Not just the Stark boy dying or those Direwolves.”

“He’s not dead as yet, more the pity. You aren't wrong, but I’ve yet to put a finger on what it is. Those northerners- might be I don’t think they’re cut for King's Landing.”

Elinor crossed her arms. “And that bothers you?”

Sandor shrugged, scowling. “Dogs can smell a storm coming, that's all. The Starks will get carried away with the rest of them- and if they don’t, they die. It’s happened before and it will happen again.”

Elinor gave a little conceding shrug, nodding her head and resuming her digging through Sandor’s trunk. Pants, tunics, a few odds and ends he’d traveled with that would be brought to wash and then returned were piled into her arms.

He pictured the docile little wolf at Castle Darry, who had looked at him so calmly. She’d allowed him to tug out some shedding fur after he wrung blood from the cloak he’d wrapped the boy in. From there it had been as simple as locating Ned Stark’s guard captain. Cassel’s confusion had been easier to play on than Stark’s distrust. 

Why he’d done it, he could not say- but no, that wasn’t quite true. Something about the Direwolf’s calm stare had cut down into a memory of another hound, one that had been dead longer now than it had lived. He could not bring back the dead, any more than he could repair a broken neck, but every once and awhile a dog might not need die. Stark had not spoken with him since, but all had been calm and there had been no further incident on the road.

By now, unless something had happened, the girl’s wolf was securely back in the north.

Elinor inhaled deeply, lips pursed. She looked like their father, for just an instant. "Mind yourself, Sandor."

He nodded. The wolf's fate and a wineskin would have to be enough to settle his nerves.


	4. The Tourney of the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I've had this chapter sitting in my drafts for a long time, unsure if it was long enough or I ought to add more. I just moved into a new place an have had a lot going on the last few months.
> 
> A recent comment kind of tugged me out of my rut, so fuck it! Here y'all go! Bonding! Fighting! Gregor!

“Come, you're not the only one who needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.”

Sansa allowed herself to be brought to her feet, numbly accepting the careful nudge of a large hand between her shoulder blades. Clegane lead her away from the snoring Septa Mordane, and she chanced one final look back at the pavilion where she had sat on such a beautiful day. It was shadowed, now. The only people who remained were asleep like the Septa, or otherwise occupied in hidden places. It had all seemed so bright and glorious mere moments ago, and the sudden silence as they made their way through the pavilions and gently flapping banners was enough to drive a girl mad. Struggling for a moment, Sansa lifted a hand to her lips and forced herself to say something, anything to fill the void.

“You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor.”

He laughed again, and the grating quality of it sent a shiver along her back. The derisive snort that accompanied it made her start.

“ _ Spare me  _ your empty little compliments, girl. And your  _ sers- _ I’m not a knight,” he glowered down at her. “My brother is a knight, did you see him ride today?”

It would have been impossible to miss the Mountain as he rode, and Sansa felt herself clasping her hands in front of herself, frightened more at the mention of the elder Clegane than the younger right in front of her. “He…” she started. “He was-”

The Hound only stared hard at her as she stumbled over an appropriate thing to say. She thought hard about what he had just said, and about the blood they had scooped dirt over on the field. Finally, she managed, in a breathy whisper that she hardly recognized as herself. “No one could withstand him.”

He stopped short, suddenly, chin up and staring out towards the city wall. “Your Septa trained you well. You’re like one of those chirping little birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? Pretty words that mean nothing at all.”

“That's unkind.”

“Is it? You'd best get used to that around here, else you’ll be giving everyone that wet look. ‘No one could withstand him’- that's true enough, I suppose. No one ever could withstand Gregor.” He seemed to struggle for a moment, and then words came pouring out his mouth as if he had no control over it. He was off suddenly, speaking of the knight from the Vale and his ill-fitted gorget. Gregor, Gregor’s lance. Somewhere in her tummy Sansa felt a truth in his words that made her feel cold, though she didn't want to believe it. She held no particular affection for the Mountain, but it was such a dreadful thing to do in the name of competition. If it had seemed her beautiful dream was over, this was a nightmare.

Then there was a hand on her face- callused, rough- and she was being steered to look the Hound dead in the face. She could smell the wine on him as he bellowed, commanding her to look at him.

It was not pretty. She had stolen glances all along the Kingsroad, and up close it was no better. She could see now the way his hair stopped partway down the scalp, how it gave way to lumpy, waxy tissue surrounding the stump of an ear. What she had thought was exposed bone was merely flesh so thin it seemed to have no blood in it all. And his eyes… The grey in the torchlight made her heart clench.

_ Take your look,  _ he said. Sansa felt the tears on her face.

_ I was younger than you. _

_ Picked me up under his arm. _

_ I screamed and screamed. _

_ My father protected him.  _

_ Arise, **Ser** Gregor. _

Her hands had come up to her mouth, and the tears in her eyes dried as fast as they'd come. He was hunched over now, swaying in the gloom where he’d doused the torch. Courage seemed to build in her heart, and Sansa pressed her palm against the great shoulder beside her. He flinched- or perhaps it was merely a twitch. The Hound was powerfully warm beneath her fingers, and she could feel the great lungs taking breaths like a worn out horse. 

“He is no true knight.” She whispered firmly. 

Clegane laughed suddenly, manic, and her hand slipped down his shoulder to his bicep. He was staring at her now, good side hidden by his hair and exposing the twisted skin of his burns. They suddenly did not frighten her, and the one grey eye she could see was searching her face. For what, Sansa knew not.

“No, Little bird,” he said quietly. One large hand wrapped gently around her arm and he stood back up to his full height. “He is not. Come.”

He brought her safely all the way up into the Red Keep, seeming to be torn between thoughtful and brooding. When he delivered her to her door, he caught her arm again. His eyes rimmed red.

“The things I told you, if you tell anyone… Your sister, Septa, Father,  _ anyone _ …” He sounded ragged and hollow. It was a frightening tone, but Sansa no longer feared him, somehow. No, she only felt unsure of what it was he wanted of her- or anyone, for that matter.

“I-I won't, my lord,” she managed before he could speak again. “It… it would not be  _ courteous _ to do so without your leave. I promise.”

“If you do, I’ll kill you.”

He turned swiftly and seemed to stalk down the corridor and down the stairs, leaving Sansa flustered and alone.

* * *

Sansa felt oddly tired the following morning, and forced herself awake with a cup of Septa Mordane’s favored tea. It tasted dreadful, so she’d had to dump a large quantity of honey into it to fortify her towards the rest of the day.

The Septa herself seemed indisposed for the morning, and so her father escorted her down to the stands while Arya scurried off to her dancing lessons. 

“Who do you suppose might take the day, father?”

Ned blinked, aroused from his thoughts. Sansa watched him run his palm along his beard thoughtfully. “Those that remain all have their strengths, though I think I will root for young Loras,” Sansa watched her father's mouth twitch. He did not seem to care for the other contestants enough to suggest they may win. “He seems the most agreeable.”

“Who do  **you** think might champion?”

Sansa wanted to say Ser Loras as well, but her stomach did a flip at the question. Ser Jaime was formidable, the Mountain terrifying, and Loras so grand… but a grey flash in her mind's eye and she almost spoke the Hound’s name. She hesitated.

“Ser Loras must win,” she said finally as they slid into their places before the lists. “He is a true knight, nothing might stop him.”

That felt the right thing to say, and her father squeezed her shoulder in reply. 

Greetings were given and conversation began to bubble around her as others filed in- Lord Baelish and Ser Renly, a man with the Marbrand crest on his breast, and in the place where Septa Mordane might have sat, a woman in the yellow and black of House Clegane, three iron dogs on a chain around her neck. There was a brief introduction, formalities to go through as the crowd grew and settled, and Sansa found that the Hound’s sister was leaps and bounds more proper than either of her siblings. (Not that she had spoken to the Mountain, that is. She merely got the impression that he was not the sort with whom one might hold a conversation.)

Lady Elinor was sharp, she did not linger with her words. In some ways it was much like speaking to the Hound, for she had the same way of bullying her point of view at Sansa- but there was no anger. Only calm courtesy and japes.

“A hundred gold dragons on the Kingslayer,” they heard Lord Baelish announce behind them.

“Done! The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning.” That from Lord Renly.

“Even hungry dogs know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.”

Elinor bent near to Sansa’s ear.

“Fools do love to show off how clever they think themselves. Lord Baelish is no exception.”

“That seems unkind. How do you mean?” 

“He thinks my brother will ride gently so as not to displease his Lord- but Ser Jaime is Kingsguard, and no heir to Casterly Rock. House Clegane is not beholden to him the way we are to Lord Tywin, or Queen Cersei,” she paused, corners of her mouth twitching. “Not that Sandor cares a whit for any of that.”

Sansa stifled a giggle, and leaned closer to watch the first tilt. Perhaps it was a bit rude, but Lord Baelish was being rather loud about how little he thought of the Hound’s honor. And with his sister right here! And truly… Sansa could see the truth in it. Lord Baelish did not know Sandor Clegane.

She turned her attention back to the tourney. It was all so magical- Jaime Lannister a glittering streak of gold, the Hound a grey smear as they bellowed down the lists. Lannister’s lance exploded as they passed one another, and Sansa found herself swept up in the gasps and cheers of the crowd. Her hands were on her cheeks, entranced.

The second go around felt supercharged, and Sansa managed to make out the Hound’s thighs clench tight and shift him in the saddle- there was a mighty collision, and the blood bay mare that Ser Jaime had ridden was galloping away, leaving her rider in the dirt. Behind her, Sansa could hear Lord Baelish huffing.

“I knew the Hound would win,” she whispered. She did not hear what Baelish said to her, but Renly was prodding him for payment, and so she did not reply. Perhaps that was rude as well, but she could not stop watching the Hound as he rode his horse to halt and turned the beast around. He was no knight of flowers, but there was something true and mighty about him, for certain.

“Oh poor Ser Jaime-” Elinor was laughing. “Look, they’re sending for a Blacksmith!”

Poor Ser Jaime indeed. His helm was dented and twisted half around so he could not see, and Sansa watched a flopping golden lock of hair protruding out the warped Lion’s mouth, billowing in the breeze as they helped him off the field. Even her father seemed to be masking a laugh, and Sansa leaned into him for a moment, basking in it all.

And then there he was. 

Loras Tyrell, as beautiful and shining as a silvery summer’s day in the North. The filigreed flowers on his armor glinted in the sun like light off new snow. Sansa grasped her father's wrist as he cantered out onto the field along with Ser Gregor. She recalled the bloody young man from the Vale, and even more, she remembered Sandor Clegane’s haunted eyes the night before.

“Oh, father, please don't let Ser Gregor hurt him.”

The words came unbidden, but she meant them terribly. Suddenly Ser Loras’ beautiful floral armor seemed frighteningly ill-prepared to face off against the Mountain, and Sansa could not help but find the space in the churned up dirt where only the day before a body lay. Gregor was storming onto the pitch, massive black destrier stomping and putting up a fuss. He looked half a devil from the seven hells, and Ser Loras so small in comparison.

“There now,” her father was saying. “It is only for sport, the lances are made to shatter on a hit.”

But they'd both seen the dead boy from the Vale, and Sansa knew the words meant little. Still, father wrapped his hand around her forearm and kept a comforting hold on her. Sansa kept her eyes on Ser Loras, ignoring the wild snorting that came from the Mountains side of the lists. For a moment, her nerves were all for naught, as the two riders charged each other. Loras’ lance went just so, and threw the Mountain from his seat, horse and man crumbling to the overturned dirt. Sansa felt flush, and she had to grasp her seat so as not to swoon.

Out of her periphery she caught sight of a great gush of red, and the screaming started. Her father was yelling, Ser Loras had been knocked from the saddle, and Sansa felt hot tears on her face-

Lady Elinor screamed beside her, a terrified and strangled noise as she stood and lurched forwards. The man beside her gripped her arms tightly and kept her still. The Hound had taken the field, and now both brothers were hacking away at each other, the great clamor of steel ringing amidst shouting and panic- Loras’ squire was helping him to safety, members of the crowd urging him into their ranks to avoid the battle now taking place between the Clegane brothers. Their sister, Sansa saw, was white as milk, eyes wide and bright with fear.

“I have to- let me  _ go-  _ he will kill him- you don't understand-”

The man at her side, who Sansa now recognized as Ser Addam Marbrand, kept a firm hand. “Have some faith in the Hound, Lady Elinor.”

The noise she made was manic, a laugh that diverged into the hysterical. And then-

“ _ STOP THIS MADNESS, IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING! _ ”

Twenty swords now surrounded Gregor Clegane, and Sandor was on bended knee in the dirt, head bowed low at the King’s command. 

Sansa found she was still crying herself, could not tear her eyes away from the Hound’s helm, steel teeth glinting in the sun. She could not think, could scarcely breathe. 

“Gods,” someone near her hissed. “He was truly out to kill his own brother.”

And then the Mountain rumbled his way off the pitch, an uneasy relief left in his wake. Barristan Selmy reached a hand out to assist Clegane to his feet, but the man did it on his own, stalking away towards his own pavilion. Sansa felt more than saw Lady Elinor collapse back into her seat.

Something not unlike dread settled in her tummy, and Sansa clutched her father’s arm all the tighter.

* * *

“You know if he’d killed Loras he’d likely have been executed. Stripped of his holdings, titles, at least. The Tyrells would have pressured Tywin and the Crown,” her arms were crossed, mouth a thin line. “Clegane Keep could have passed to you, we might have- we could have gone-”

“Don’t you dare say ‘home’, that infernal keep hasn't ever been home-”

“But it was  _ ours _ ! We could have had it, changed it, fixed things! What sudden act of conscience made you put your  _ life _ at risk like that for the Knight of Flowers! We nearly were rid of Gregor for  _ good,  _ Sandor! And you know it!” She was furious, spittle flying with contempt and rage. Her palms made contact with his chest once, twice, and finally Sandor snatched his sisters wrists and flung her away. Elinor stumbled, caught herself on the bedpost, and gave him a filthy look.

“I’m a shield of the crown!” he bellowed. “Was I supposed to stand there and let Gregor murder another boy? That poor cunt from the Vale wasn't enough for you?”

“There would have been justice!”

“There’ll  **never** be justice! There wasn't justice when we were children and there won't be any fucking justice now!” Sandor's fist slammed hard into the nearest wall.

She flinched as he took a step towards her, and Sandor's hands clenched tight. The air seemed thick, and he felt the sticky pangs of guilt and regret even as he stared his sister down. She scowled, gathered her skirts, and shoved past him to make for the door, wrenching it open with both hands.

“I hope your moment in the sun was worth it.”


End file.
